between the pages, lines, creases.

there's something in-between feeling too much and feeling nothing, but i've lost sight of or simply can't remember what it is. or even how it feels. the world is old and i feel it in my bones. i taste it in my blood. i see it in my reflection; my mirrored image gathered from rain puddles, broken glass or even in my sleep. it's the dream you can never remember. the sock lost to the dryer. the sigh at 3 AM. the way your hands shake at the sight of someone you once shared secrets with, or worse: loved. and you want to remember how just enough something and the right dash of nothing felt. but you're too often weighed down by the things you should or shouldn't have done and it overwhelms you. like the tide at midnight; crashing into you over and over again. if only, with time, it'd polish you up like a shiny refurbished shell. the thing about shells is that they're so smooth and beautiful but they only got that way through hardships. beaten and worn down, they one day emerge. like a butterfly from a cocoon. so maybe, just maybe, too much "something" can be good in the long run. but it can be ever so challenging to see the light at the end of that tunnel, though. which is why it's sometimes better to feel complacent or indifferent, especially when overwhelmed. some days you paint, "i don't feel a damn thing," on your face. your only use for war paint is to tell the world that you refuse to fight. and some days that's okay.